Thus o'er the dying Lamp th'unsteady Flame / Hang's quiv'ring on a Point, leap's off by Fits, / And fall's again, as loath to quit its Hold / --Thou must not go, my Soul still hover's o'er thee /
And can't get loose."

"Now, Marcus, now, thy Virtue's on the Proof: / Put forth thy utmost Strength, work ev'ry Nerve, / And call up all thy Father in thy Soul: / To quell the Tyrant Love, and guard thy Heart / On this weak Side, where most our Nature fails, / Would be a Conquest worthy Cato's Son."